


Concussion

by maqcy



Series: Whumptober 2018 [20]
Category: Suits (US TV)
Genre: AU, Abuse, Alternate Universe - Slavery, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bad Eyesight, Blood, Caring Harvey, Concussions, Dizziness, Emotional Hurt, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Fluff, Gen, Harvey Specter is Not an Asshole, Head Injury, Headaches & Migraines, Hurt, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Sexual Harassment, M/M, Master/Slave, Medical, Medical Inaccuracies, Non-Sexual Slavery, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pov mike ross, Protective Harvey, Protective Harvey Specter, Psychological Trauma, Sad with a Happy Ending, Slavery, Submissive Mike Ross, Suits, Trauma, Whump, Whumptober, abused mike ross, asshole trevor evans, but - Freeform, but me and my beta did our best, but they're called 'associates', eh well, eventually lol, flinching, he is a bit, probably also some, slave AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-07
Updated: 2018-12-07
Packaged: 2019-09-13 14:08:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16894074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maqcy/pseuds/maqcy
Summary: Mike sold himself in order to pay for his grandmother's medical care. When Trevor, his best friend, purchased his contract, Mike thought things might be okay despite his fears. But Trevor wasn't the man Mike thought he was, and Mike isn't so quick to trust when a suave stranger takes an inexplicable interest in him.





	Concussion

**Author's Note:**

> hello! :D just a couple of notes:  
> \- slaves are called associates here and 'slavery' is referred to as 'associateship'.  
> \- The first part retells the start of the first episode (I own nothing, this is just my brain vomit, blah blah don't sue me), although the tone is pretty vastly different considering Mike's an associate, and literally belongs to Trevor.  
> \- My beta (who is the most marvellous person ever) and I have done our best with the medical stuff and i hope its accurate enough to get properly immersed in. we tried anyways :D  
> \- Harvey calls Mike a kid like a thousand times. this is totally not canon but i feel like it's fairly on brand ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> Beware the tags, and i hope you enjoy!
> 
> (p.s. to anyone still there who's been following my belated whumptober, firstly you're amazing and secondly look at this nice long fic that's appeared??? pls be proud of me im just a smol bean)

_Breathe_ , Mike thought.

His owner had sent him to do this. It was illegal, completely illegal, but he didn’t have a choice. If shit hit the fan, Mike knew his owner, Trevor, would blame him entirely for having the drugs in his possession, that Mike would take the drop for it despite all that bullshit about owners being responsible for their associates. It always got framed as the associate trying to escape, or get revenge, or some other crap.

 _You can do this_ , Mike thought desperately. He was dressed to blend in with the hotel associates, his collar replaced with a plain black one rather than his usual brown and it felt stiff and odd around his throat, not fitting right. Just another reminder that he wasn’t supposed to be here.

He made his way through the hotel with a tray of drinks he’d lifted from the side, keeping his head down respectfully but his steps purposeful, like he had a reason to be there. He had an unobtrusive canvas bag over his shoulder, casually bumping his hip like it didn’t contain everything needed to sentence him to hard labour at best and electrocution at worse. Mike swallowed thickly, weaving through the people in the corridor. He saw a sign for an ‘Associate Viewing’ and clenched his jaw before pulling his gaze away. It would be a room full of the best and most accomplished associates there to be auctioned off to the highest bidder amongst light social chatter and champagne. Mike shoved it out of his mind as he slid the tray he’d been carrying down on a side table when no-one seemed to be looking. Then he slipped into the service stairway and began making his way up the floors.

The climb made his thighs burn and, unused to much exercise of any kind, he was panting by the time he reached the third floor. Looking for room 2410.

He walked silently down the softly carpeted corridor. Wearing shoes felt odd considering the amount of time he spent barefoot in his owner’s house but he still moved silently, accustomed as he was to not making any noise as he walked.

His stride faltered as he turned a corner and saw two men, one dressed in hotel uniform and the other in a business suit, standing in front of a room. Mike came to an abrupt stop when he saw the room number; 2410. The man in the Chiton’s red uniform, which was reserved for non-associate employees, was trying to get the door open and neither of the men had noticed Mike yet. Mike stared at them, indecisive. Something seemed wrong, why were those two both outside the door Mike had been told to drop the drugs off at? The man in the business suit moved leant around the other man to try to see what the problem was with the hotel key card, and in doing so, revealed the gun that was hanging from a holster inside his jacket. _Oh fuck_.

Carefully, silently, Mike turned around and walked in the opposite direction, his heart thudding with panic. Cops, they had to be cops. Mike prayed they hadn’t seen him. His owner would understand, right? Mike wasn’t any good to Trevor dead, and he wouldn’t want to be put under suspicion because his associate got caught with a bag full of weed, right? Mike just needed to get out of there, he could think about convincing his owner not to beat him bloody later.

“Hey!” one of the men called after him and Mike shuddered and walked faster. “Hey, associate, come here!”

Mike all but dived into the service stairwell, dashing down the stairs with his canvas bag thudding against his back. He remembered the sign for the associate viewing he’d seen and headed towards it out of pure desperation. The cops would surely never look for him there.

He needed to be wearing less clothes, though, and certainly not the hotel uniform so, just before he exited the stairwell, he tore his black shirt off over his head and shoved it into his canvas bag before hurried towards the viewing.

“Associate 20,” someone said as he skidded into the room. He glanced around, his breathing ragged, and saw a roomful of owners sat down with associates in various states of undress at their feet.

“Associate 20?” a red-haired woman spoke and Mike realised she was looking at him. Mike looked back at the door, expecting those men to come through any second and his hand tightened around the bag over his shoulder. This was as good a cover as any, he supposed. He’d just have to find some way to slip out later, and make sure he wasn’t chosen.

“Are you number 20 or not?” the woman pressed, raising her eyebrows at him. She looked formidable and Mike quickly lowered his eyes.

“Er, yes ma’am?” he said.

“Where the hell is your owner and why are you late?”

“In the bathroom, ma’am,” Mike improvised. “Sent me ahead. Apologies.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “If your owner is hoping to persuade Mr Spectre to purchase you, he’s doing a terrible job so far.”

Mike blamed the fact that he was running high on adrenaline for his unguarded tongue when he said, “I’d be grateful if you didn’t tell him that, ma’am, I’m pretty attached to the skin on my back.”

She blinked at him and Mike held his breath, wondering whether he was about to yelled at, only for her to smirk slightly. “Well, go on through then,” she said, suddenly pleasant.

“What? Ma’am?” Mike said dumbly. He glanced again at the door, scared of the cops but also wondering what the hell he’d gotten himself into now.

She gestured to a door. “Go through there. Mr Spectre isn’t a patient man. Don’t worry, I’ll send your owner through when they come.” She must have noticed him glancing at the door.

“Right, yes, thank you, ma’am,” Mike managed stiffly and, his hand clenched around the incriminating bag, he walked through the door she’d indicated, shivering slightly as sweat cooled on his bare torso.

 _Fucking rich people_ , he thought as he stepped through into a lavish room which was clearly an office. A man in a suit stood beside the desk, attractive but with a cold expression on his face that Mike didn’t like at all. Mike presumed it was Mr Spectre he was looking at and lowered his gaze to the man’s expensive shoes, cursing himself for forgetting he wasn’t permitted to look people in the eye.

“Where’s your owner?” the man said, his voice a low rumble that made Mike tense. Spectre seemed like a man used to being obeyed. “Donna!” Spectre called, startling Mike, and the red-haired woman came in, looking none too impressed to be summoned. “Where’s this kid’s owner? And, Jesus, why does he look like he’s about to pass out?”

Mike clenched his hand around the strap of his bag.

“Why don’t you ask the kid?” the woman, Donna, said. “At least this one seems to have something of a brain, unlike the trained idiots out there.” Mike wasn’t sure if that was a recommendation or a condemnation.

Donna left, closing the door with a click and Mike tried to breathe through the semi-panic in his chest. At least he’d shaken the cops off, right? He could just get through this and then find a way out of here, and then explain somehow to Trevor- oh fucking hell this was a mess.

“Are you going to kneel, or just stand there?” Spectre said, breaking into Mike’s spiralling thoughts. It took a second too long for Mike to compute and he caught the narrowing of Spectre’s eyes that showed he’d noticed. Mike sunk to the floor so quickly his knees thudded on contact.

Spectre moved to lean against his desk, his arms folded as he looked down at Mike. “Normally this is where I’d ask your owner to outline your credentials but since they’re so negligently absent, how about you tell me, kid?”

“Eh,” Mike stalled, clenching his hands in his lap. “What do you want to know, sir?”

 Spectre made a scoffing sound. “Your favourite colour and your shoe size. For Christ’s sake kid, I want to know what _qualifies_ you to be my associate.”

“Oh,” Mike said, blinking at the floor, which seemed to be swimming a little in his vision. Who was this guy, that he had people lining up trying to sell him an associate? This wasn’t anything like the informal associate viewing that Mike had been expecting.

“Don’t start panicking on me,” Spectre said. “Why are you clinging onto that bag anyway? Is it your owner’s?”

“Yes sir,” Mike said, strained.

“Give it here,” Spectre stepped towards him and Mike tensed up. “I’ll put it on the side. You’re gonna mark the strap with sweat with how nervous you are.”

“I’ll- just hang onto it, if that’s alright, sir,” Mike said leaning away warily as Spectre bent down to take it.

“Don’t be insolent, kid,” Spectre said, light enough but cold all the same. He grabbed hold of the strap with all the entitlement of a free person, moving to take it off Mike. In a fit of paranoia, Mike grabbed at the bag.

“Wait-” he pleaded. Spectre’s expression went dark and he tugged the bag away roughly, so that the bag, still open from when Mike had stuffed his shirt inside, gaped open.

“You need some serious lessons in manners, kid,” Spectre snapped. Mike could see some of the weed inside the bag but Spectre hadn’t noticed yet and Mike tried to swallow his terror and pretend like it was fine.

“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir,” he mumbled.

Spectre moved away to dump the bag down on the side and Mike watched him, tense as a bow string. His stomach dropped when Spectre stilled, and then opened the bag further.

“The hell is this?” he said, dangerously cool. He tossed Mike’s shirt out of the way, turning to Mike with an expression of shock. “Is this- are you seriously-”

Mike found himself on his feet before he could stop himself, glancing towards the door.

“No you stay right there,” Spectre barked and Mike froze, before backing up a step when Spectre strode towards him.

“Please, I didn’t- sir,” Mike pleaded, his hands raised in surrender.

“You’re a terrible associate, you know that?” Spectre said, staring at him and standing far too close. “You don’t drop your eyes,” Mike lowered his gaze very quickly, “you don’t kneel, you certainly haven’t been properly trained like the rest of spineless fools I’ve seen today. And now I find that you’re carrying drugs.” Mike shivered. Slowly, he went back to his knees, hunched over on himself as he waited for whatever Spectre was going to do with him, which would likely be to send for the cops that Mike had so desperately been trying to avoid. He might beat Mike first, though, for his insolence.

“Your owner’s not in the bathroom are they?” Mike was silent, too caught in his panic to respond, until his knee was nudged with Spectre’s shoe and he startled. “That was a question, kid, answer it.”

“No, sir, they’re not in the bathroom, sir,” Mike said dully, his gaze focused on the carpet. It was a decent surface to be kneeling on; the weave thick enough that it didn’t bruise his knees, unlike the hard floors of Trevor’s ultra-modern house.

He heard Spectre exhale on a sigh and then the sound of the man’s footsteps moving away. “What’s your name?”

Mike hesitated for a second before giving up. “Mike, property of Trevor Evans, sir,” he said. They’d only check his chip at the police station anyway. Mike felt numb and cold.

“Why’re you walking about the Chiton hotel with a bag full of drugs, Mike?”

Mike glanced up, surprised that Spectre was even bothering to ask, not that Mike expected he’d be believed but still. He dropped his head again when Spectre raised his eyebrows at him.

“I was told to, sir. My owner wanted them delivered.” There was silence and Mike found himself filling it our of nerves. “But there were cops outside the room and I- came in here.”

“Tried to hide yourself,” Spectre filled in. Mike nodded miserably. Spectre exhaled on a sigh. “Fucking owners,” he muttered. “I worked at the DA for a while and I saw it all the damn time; associates taking the hit. I bet you’re not even literate, are you? And yet the associate gets pinned with some-”

“I’m literate,” Mike said. “Sir,” he added belatedly, flushing when he realised he’d just interrupted the man.

“Really?” Spectre drawled. “You look like one of those shitty farm-grown associates that was never socialised, let alone taught to read.”

Mike scowled. “I was a voluntary,” he bit out. “Sir.”

“Uh huh,” Spectre said, sounding unconvinced. He took the nearest book off the desk, a big tome of a thing. “Read the title of this, then.”

Spectre was mocking him and Mike tried and failed to restrain his irritation. He looked up angrily, only to blink when he saw the book’s title. That was a Barbri legal handbook. Was that what Spectre was; a lawyer? Spectre smirked at Mike’s silence.

“Look, kid, it’s okay-” he started, aggravatingly smug.

“Turn to page two-hundred,” Mike broke in. This man was going to call the police on him anyway, he figured. He might as well prove to this asshole that not all associates were dumb as dirt. “I’ll tell you everything that’s on that page.”

Spectre stared at him for a moment. “And if you’re full of shit?” he said quietly.

“Call the cops, beat me, I don’t care,” Mike snapped.

Spectre blinked and shook his head in bemusement, but he picked up the handbook and flicked to the page, just as Mike was flicking through the pages in his mind.

“Go on then,” Spectre said, unimpressed.

Mike took a breath. “Civil liability associated with agency is based on several factors including the deviation of the agent from his path. The reasonable inference of agency on behalf of the plaintiff and the nature of the damages themselves-”

“Wait, wait, how do you know that?” Spectre said, looking shell-shocked.

“I learnt it,” Mike said flatly, abandoning any trace of subservience. “When I studied. For the bar.”  

Spectre stared at him. “Okay hotshot,” he said, sitting back and crossing his arms. “How about you tell me why the hell you volunteered when you could be half-way through law-school.”

“Money,” Mike said and shrugged. He didn’t want to talk about his grandmother with this smug, rich asshole. Mike met Spectre’s eyes, finding the man watching with a faint frown, like he couldn’t quite figure him out. “Look, can you just get this over with?” Mike said. “Call the cops, okay? Haven’t you got shit to be doing?”

Spectre blinked. “I do actually, yes. Fascinating as this has been, how about you see yourself out?”

Mike swallowed thickly and stared, studying Spectre’s impassive face, his brown eyes and slicked-back hair. There wasn’t much empathy to be seen in his expression, but maybe it was apathy instead, and Spectre just didn’t want to have to deal with the hassle of handing Mike over to the cops.

“You’re serious?” Mike said quietly. Spectre just looked at him silently and then got to his feet, making Mike jump. Spectre stilled, looking down at him.

“Twitchy, aren’t you?” he noted quietly, before he walked over to the door and pulled it open, leaning out for a moment before he closed it again. “No cops. You’re clear to scurry off back to your dick of an owner.”

Mike’s lip twitched. “I don’t _scurry_ ,” he said.

Spectre cracked an easy, charming smile. “Sure, kid.” Mike couldn’t help but smile a little back at him, relief that Spectre might seriously be letting him walk away from this making him feel light-headed.

Mike glanced once more at Spectre, who just looked expectantly at him, and then he got to his feet and went to pick up the canvas bag, picking up his shirt from where Spectre had tossed it. Mike paused, looking down at the weed in the bag and he shivered, the bare skin of his back feeling cold and tingly. He wondered whether Trevor would use his belt or the cane, and whether he’d be able to hold his temper until Jenny wasn’t in the flat. She hated seeing Trevor hurt Mike, but seemed reluctantly willing to turn a blind eye to Mike’s winces and limps as long as she didn’t have to watch the violence itself.

“Are you trying to give me the chance to change my mind?” Spectre asked and Mike startled, quickly shoving his shirt in the bag and zipping it up. He’d put it back on once he was away from the viewing.

“Sorry, sir,” Mike murmured and headed for the door.

“Mike, wait,” Spectre said abruptly, his voice heavy. Mike hadn’t realised Spectre had remembered his name.

He froze, sending a panicked look in Spectre’s direction. “You said-” he pleaded.

Spectre shook his head. “Not that,” he said brusquely, like Mike shouldn’t be worrying about the fact that Spectre could literally decide whether or not Mike would be sentenced to execution or not. And as a lawyer, Mike knew there was no way in hell Spectre didn’t know what his actions would lead to.

“Look,” Spectre said and Mike watched him warily, “just kneel there.” He pointed to a spot of carpet beside his desk.

Mike didn’t move. He didn’t understand what the hell this Spectre guy was playing at. He swallowed any angry words and said, “Please, sir, can-”

“Back to ‘sir’ now?” Spectre said and then smirked like this was goddamn _funny_ to him. Like Mike wasn’t terrified.

Mike forced down his fury because it wasn’t helping, and neither was his fear. “Please,” he said again, quieter, but then faltered, because he didn’t know Spectre’s game, and he had nothing to bargain with.

Spectre’s expression sobered. “I’m not going to call the police, Mike,” he said. “Just come here.”

Mike swallowed. He came very slowly, reluctantly, up to Spectre’s desk. Spectre had gestured to the carpet to the side of his desk but Mike hoped to god this wasn’t going to turn into Mike going under the desk.

Spectre just looked at him from his chair, appearing either oblivious or uncaring of whatever he saw on Mike’s face, although Mike thought Spectre noticed more than he was letting on.

Spectre clicked his fingers and Mike did as he was told because he had no choice, folding to his knees beside Spectre’s desk, facing the door, his back rigid.

“Breathe, kid,” Spectre said with something like gentleness. “Here’s what’s going to happen, since I can see you’re panicking: I’m going to interview the rest of these useless, overbred associates and then you and I will go and have a chat with your owner.”

Mike stared unblinkingly at the floor. He flinched violently when a hand brushed his shoulder and shot a half-angry and half-betrayed look up at Spectre, who looked taken aback.

“Easy, kid, Jesus. Give me the bag, I’ll put it under the desk, alright?” Spectre took the bag off him without waiting for an answer and Mike just let him.

“You want the weed, is that it?” Mike said quietly. “Sir.”

“No,” Spectre said, sounding faintly exasperated. “Kid, let’s pretend for a second that you’re an associate with the most basic level of training. How about you quieten down and follow orders and, I don’t know, trust your betters.”

Mike shot Spectre an incredulous glance, only to find Spectre smirking like this was all a goddamn game to him. Mike drew a tight, fake smile across his face, feeling exhausted and vindictive. Fuck Spectre for playing with him, and fuck Trevor, for getting him into all this.

“Of course, sir,” he said, folding his hands neatly in his lap.

“O-kay then,” Spectre muttered. “Donna!”

Donna came in, looking distinctly irritated to be summoned again. She blinked to see Mike kneeling by Spectre’s desk and Mike tried very hard to suppress the flush that wanted to rise in his face.

“You’ve chosen?” Donna said, sounding surprised, before her lips curled up mischievously. “You did take a long time interviewing him,” she noted. “Must have been very…thorough.”

Spectre exhaled lowly. “Mike’s sitting here until his owner comes back,” he said pleasantly. “So send the next one in, will you?”

Donna smiled wickedly. “Of course,” she said, winked at Mike, and disappeared. Mike felt sick.

Mike knew how to keep quiet when he needed to and he made himself as unobtrusive as possible as Spectre waved in each of the owners with their associate in tow. The associates were all flawless; submissive but not nervous, intelligent but not insolent. And pretty. They were all pretty. Mike swallowed, bowing his head slightly as Spectre saw the last of them out of the interview room. He didn’t know what the hell Spectre wanted with him, not considering the associates that people were clearly tripping over themselves to sell him.

Spectre shut the door and though Mike’s head was down he knew Spectre was looking at him.

“God, that was boring,” Spectre muttered and Mike’s head came up sharply. Spectre looked back at him evenly. “Which one would you pick?” he asked.

Mike blinked, wondering why Spectre was asking for _his_ opinion. Mike ran the associates through his head as he came up with an answer. “The third one, I think, sir.”

“Why’s that?” Spectre said, his eyebrows raised.

Mike shrugged, which was something else a proper associate wouldn’t do. Jenny said it was inelegant and had nicely asked him not to do it when she and Trevor had company.

“You set up that trick question and she was the only one to say both of the options were wrong. If you want a sounding board, you need someone who’ll call you out.” Mike realised belatedly that he’d been far too assertive and he started to apologise, only to find Spectre smiling at him very slightly. Mike froze, eying him in wariness and confusion.

“Exactly my thinking,” Spectre said approvingly as he came over and began to pack his things into a briefcase. “Up you get then, unless your legs have gone to sleep. Must be murder on your knees.”

“This carpet’s nice,” Mike said before his brain caught up with his mouth and he flushed. Spectre just looked amused.

“Happy to hear it,” he said flatly, but his eyes were laughing.

Mike got gingerly to his feet, flinching when Spectre suddenly reached for him, only to belatedly realise that Spectre had just been moving to steady him. But Spectre pulled back without making contact and didn’t speak, all traces of amusement disappearing from his face.

Spectre turned silently away and got the bag with the weed in out from under the table and handed it to Mike.

“Try not to let it come open this time,” he said. Mike just nodded quickly and slung it over his shoulder.

Spectre led the way out, exchanging a few words with Donna which Mike didn’t catch, his mind hurrying ahead to what would happen when Spectre met Trevor, if Spectre was serious. What was he planning to do? Give Trevor a warning about sending his incompetent associate loose in a hotel with a bag full of pot? Mike’s stomach sank. Trevor was going to be so mad.

“Mike?”

Mike’s head snapped up to see Spectre looking at him with a frown. “Sir?” he said.

“We’re leaving,” Spectre said. “Going to track down your owner.” Spectre looked at him pointedly and Mike nodded hurriedly, figuring that Spectre wanted to keep up Mike’s lie in front of Donna, about his owner being in the bathroom.

“Sorry for the inconvenience, sir,” he mumbled. Spectre didn’t acknowledge him except to jerk his head for Mike to follow before he walked ahead. Mike hurried after him, shadowing him as they passed down the corridor. Spectre paused just before they got to the entrance hall and turned to face him. Mike looked back nervously before he dropped his gaze. Why was he so awful at remembering to do that? He could remember everything else perfectly well but something about Spectre put Mike on guard and he couldn’t keep his gaze on the floor like he was supposed to.

“Put your shirt back on,” Spectre ordered, explaining why he’d stopped and Mike fumbled to obey, carefully opening the bag so that no passers-by would see inside before he tugged out the shirt and dragged it on. Spectre’s gaze flickered over him for a moment and Mike tensed, wondering what Spectre was thinking behind those dark eyes, before he just nodded and stepped away. Mike trailed after him.

A car pulled up for Spectre and Spectre ushered Mike into the back before walking around to get in the other side.

“Office?” the driver asked.

“Not today, Ray,” Spectre said. He turned to Mike, who stiffened. “Where do you live, kid?”

Mike clenched his jaw but what choice did he have? Spectre was a free man and if he wanted to complain to Trevor about Mike’s idiotic behaviour then he had every right. So Mike grudgingly told him the address to Trevor’s apartment and the car pulled away smoothly.

Spectre chatted to the guy, Ray, in the front and it was clearly they knew one another as they shot music trivia questions back and forth. Mike knew the answers to most of them but some were before his time and while he liked music, he’d never had a huge amount of time to listen to it.

“Have you finally caved and gotten yourself an associate then?” Ray said, his tone light. Mike saw Spectre turn to look at him out of his peripheral and kept his gaze firmly on the footwell between his feet.

“Not yet,” Spectre said. Mike risked a glance at him but couldn’t read Spectre’s expression.

Before Mike was anywhere close to ready to face his owner, the car was coming to a stop and Spectre was unclipping his seatbelt to climb out. Mike fumblingly freed himself, accidentally catching Ray’s eye briefly in the rear-mirror. To his shock, the driver winked at him.

“He’s a good guy, really,” Ray said, his face kind. “He’ll watch out for you.”

Mike stilled. “Oh, um, I’m not- he wouldn’t want to own me, sir,” he mumbled before he shoved the door open and all but tumbled out of the car.

“Alright?” Spectre said, eying him. Spectre looked calm and put-together and Mike just nodded.

“Fine, sir,” he said.

Spectre looked unconvinced but didn’t push it, turning to look up at the apartment block instead.

“Which floor’s yours?”

Mike frowned slightly at the odd phrasing. None of the floors were _Mike’s_ , because Mike didn’t own anything, the apartment was entirely Trevor’s. “The ninth, sir,” he said and Spectre nodded.

They headed up in the lift silently and Mike wordlessly pointed out which flat it was, twisting his hands nervously around the bag strap as Spectre knocked confidently. He’d left his briefcase in his driver’s car and stood, relaxed and in control, with his hands loose at his sides.

The door was tugged quickly open and Trevor appeared in just boxers and a t-shirt, clearly startling when he saw Spectre stood there in his expensive suit. Then his eyes darted past Spectre to fall on Mike, and the bag hanging on Mike’s shoulder, and his face darkened.

“That’s my associate,” Trevor said.

“Good,” Spectre said. “My name is Harvey Spectre, I work at Pearson and Hardman lawyers. How about you invite me inside so we can have a little chat.”

Trevor’s expression was murderous and Mike held himself rigid. Fuck this was bad. But eventually Trevor just moved aside with a jerked nod and Spectre walked inside with blatant self-assurance in the way he held himself. Trevor glared openly at Mike and Mike came nervously forwards, slipping through the doorway whilst keeping as far away from Trevor as he could. It was useless, though, because Trevor just shut the door heavily and reached out to grab Mike’s shirt collar, half-choking him as he dragged him forwards.

“What the hell have you done now?” he snarled.

Mike’s hands had come up instinctively to push Trevor away before he forced himself not to, cringing away.

“Enough,” Spectre snapped suddenly, making Mike’s stomach twist painfully with nerves. Trevor turned around with a look of indignation. “Look Mr….” Trevor refused to fill in the gap Spectre left and Spectre glared at him. “Look asshole,” he said instead. “Let’s sit and talk, shall we? Wouldn’t want to damage the associate I’m interested in buying now.”

Trevor released Mike abruptly as Spectre made himself at home, leaning against the arm of one of the sofas. Mike staggered back, as much in response to Spectre’s statement as Trevor letting go of his strangle-hold on Mike’s collar. But Trevor didn’t go to sit down before he grabbed the bag strap off Mike’s shoulder, taking the bag off him and dumping it on the counter. With his back to Spectre, blocking Spectre’s line of sight into the bag, Mike saw Trevor open it to check the contents. Finding the drugs still inside, Mike flinched back from the look of anger Trevor shot him.

Trevor turned back to Spectre without a word, crossing his arms. “What do you want with him?” he snapped, jerking his head towards Mike. Mike looked cautiously at Spectre, just as desirous of an answer to that question.

Spectre quirked a smile that made Mike want to back up a step. The man looked cold as fuck and Mike’s mind flickered back to everything he’d read about psychopaths and serial killers, about their charm hiding the utter lack of compassion. Suddenly Trevor’s obvious fury seemed a preferable option to this stranger.

“He’s interesting,” Spectre said cryptically. “But let’s talk about the bag full of drugs that you wanted him to drop off, shall we?”

Trevor stilled, before turning to glare at Mike. “Traitorous little shit,” he growled. Mike cringed.

“I’d say it was _your_ fault for sending your associate to do your dirty work,” Spectre said mildly. “And you were planning on putting it all on him if it was set-up. Problem is that there’s now the best lawyer in the city as witness to say that your poor associate was only following orders.” Spectre looked like he was enjoying himself and Mike felt his vision greying at the edges. What the hell did this guy _want_ with him? Mike was starting to think it was going to end up with him lying in a pool of blood, because there couldn’t be any good reason why Spectre was going to all to this trouble for a disobedient associate that no-one really wanted. Mike had been unforgivably rude to Spectre back at the hotel and Mike shuddered to think of what Spectre might have planned to make Mike into a “proper” associate.

“What do you _want_?” Trevor snapped, glaring at Spectre like he wanted to shove him down several flights of stairs. He gestured at Mike with a violent flick of his hand. “You want his scrawny ass? Fine, have him.”

Spectre didn’t smile but he looked pleased. “Excellent,” he said smoothly. “Papers?”

Mike stood, locked in place and numb with shock, as Trevor grudgingly went to dig out Mike’s papers, shoving them at Spectre sulkily. There was a time when Mike had thought Trevor was a good guy. Trevor had paid to become Mike’s owner as a favour, he’d said, and Mike had been beyond relieved. But over time it became increasingly obvious that Trevor resented Mike living there rent-free and he’d violently made it clear that he wanted an associate for real, and everything that came with being Mike’s legal owner. So Mike shouldn’t have been shocked by Trevor’s careless agreement to give him away, and yet the betrayal still hurt, like pressing on an old bruise.  

Spectre flicked through the papers Trevor had given him with a critical eye and, while Spectre was distracted, Trevor stalked over to Mike. Mike tensed.

“You better fucking make sure he’s pleased with you, Mikey,” he hissed. “Because if he dumps me in deep shit, I know where your grandmother lives, capiche?”

Mike blanched, staring at Trevor in terror. “Trevor, please don’t, _please_ -” he begged, only to choke when Trevor grabbed him roughly by the throat.

“How many times have I told you not to fucking call me that!” he yelled. Mike scrabbled, panicking, at Trevor’s arm.

“Release him!” Spectre barked and, after a second where the pressure built unbearably in Mike’s head, Trevor dropped him and Mike crumpled, gasping, to the floor. Spectre said something but Mike didn’t hear it over the ringing in his ears.

He stayed crouched on the floor as Spectre crossed the apartment a few times, doing what Mike didn’t know or care.

Some time later, a pair of polished shoes appeared in front of Mike and Mike looked up wearily to see Spectre looking down at him with an unfathomable expression. He had a plastic bag full of what looked like clothes in one hand and papers in the other.

“Up,” he ordered and Mike stumbled to his feet, taking the bag that Spectre pushed at him. Spectre didn’t acknowledge Trevor before he strode out of the apartment and Mike hurried after him and into the lift.

Spectre didn’t so much as glance at him until the lift doors closed, when Spectre turned suddenly around and Mike edged backwards warily, only to find that the lift wall was at his back and he had nowhere to retreat to. Spectre’s attention seemed to focused on Mike’s neck and when he came forwards, Mike held himself as still as he could manage with his heart galloping in his chest.

“That dick,” Spectre muttered. He lifted a hand towards Mike’s neck and the movement was slow enough that Mike was able to brace for it, keeping himself still. It was lucky Spectre’s attention was focused solely on his neck, though, because Mike was certain he wasn’t keeping his emotions off his face in the slightest. “Did he hurt you?” Spectre demanded, meeting Mike’s eyes.

Mike couldn’t speak with Spectre so close and the man’s hand near his neck so he just shook his head. The lift arrived on the ground floor with a ping and Spectre dropped his hand and nodded.

“Good,” he muttered before heading out, leaving Mike struggling to catch his breath.

They went back to the car and Mike did his damnedest to keep it together while his head spun in circles. The worst thing about having a memory like his was that he remembered _everything_ , every single shitty thing he’d ever seen, or read, or been told in perfect detail. He remembered clinical journal articles on the statistics on “sexual use” of associates, and what percentage of owners got away scot-free with the deaths of associates under their ownership. He remembered all the horror stories, and everything Trevor had ever done or threatened to do and Mike couldn’t stop his thoughts running on a sickening loop as the car ride went on.

Spectre didn’t talk to the driver this time, his face fixed in a faint frown and Mike tugged his gaze away to focus on the floor, feeling ill. He was glad he hadn’t eaten recently because otherwise he’d have been worried about it making a reappearance in Spectre’s clearly very expensive car.

When the car stopped, Mike didn’t immediately gather that they’d arrived until Spectre climbed out and Mike was again left hurrying to catch up. He deliberately didn’t catch the driver’s eye as he yanked his seatbelt off and let himself out to trail after Spectre.

Mike was hardly aware of his surroundings at all and found himself following Spectre into a building and then another lift. When they got out on Spectre’s floor, Spectre let himself into what must have been his apartment, which seemed to include the entire floor of the building. Mike traipsed unwillingly after him, feeling dizzy with fear.

“Jeez, you look miserable,” Spectre said as he put his briefcase down and took off his jacket. Mike couldn’t summon the will to say anything so just lowered his head slightly, hoping the submissiveness might make Spectre go easy on him, though he knew it was likely too little too late. _Fuck_.

“Mike?” Mike felt like he was swaying even though he was pretty sure he wasn’t. “Mike, look at me?”

Mike jerked his head up obediently only to find Spectre staring at him.

“Mike are you-?” Spectre took a step forwards, lifting his hand and it was like an elastic band had snapped inside Mike so that he didn’t flinch away so much as throw himself backwards with a choked noise of terror. There was a heavy _thwack_ before Mike suddenly found himself on the floor, stunned, his back against a wall.

“Christ!” someone exclaimed. Mike blinked. His vision was blurred and he put a hand out to try to get back to his feet, only for a throbbing pain to materialise at the back of his skull. He groaned softly, lifting a hand to his head and wincing with a hiss, his hand coming back smeared with blood. “Jesus fuck,” someone said- Spectre, Mike remembered suddenly and tensed rigid, his gaze shooting up to find Spectre turning away, to his relief. “Don’t move,” Spectre said as he walked away. Mike’s eyesight was moving sickeningly, blurry even when he tried to blink it away.

He saw Spectre’s figure coming back towards him and whimpered, his arm coming up to protect his face, but the hits he was expecting didn’t come.

“God Mike,” Spectre said, sounding appalled. “I’m not going to hurt you, kid, okay?” Mike hesitantly lowered his arm, blinking ineffectually as he tried to clear his vision, but he could see well enough to see Spectre crouched in front of him with an expression that seemed pretty close to concern.

“Sorry sir,” he breathed and lowered his head, or tried to, as the movement sent spikes of pain shooting through his head and he gritted his teeth against the pain.

“Easy,” Spectre muttered. Mike twitched away from a light touch on his arm, but Spectre just put something cold in his hand. “It’ll reduce the swelling,” Spectre said gently and Mike obeyed the implied order and pressed the ice pack to the back of his head, grimacing at the pain at first, before the cold numbed the ache a little. His vision was still off and he felt nauseous enough that he had to close his eyes a second.

“Hit your head pretty damn hard,” Spectre muttered. “Think you need a hospital?”

Mike jerked to send Spectre a pleading look. “I’m okay, sir, I’ll be good-”

Spectre held up his hands, looking taken aback. “Easy, kid, if you don’t wanna go, just say. Don’t go panicking on me again.”

Mike looked warily at him but giving a tiny nod. Hospitals were where you dropped off sick associates when you were bored of them. The state would patch them up and sell their contract on if they could, or put the associate into government work if they couldn’t, since associates couldn’t legally be killed. There were places that would do it, though, and the state was shit at cracking down on them. As far as they were concerned, the less useless criminals running around the country, the better.

Mike swallowed thickly. “I’ll be good, sir,” he said again quietly, keeping his gaze down. The ice pack was melting a little in his hand and a drop of water ran down his arm where he was holding it to his head.

“Just how hard did you hit your head?” Spectre said lightly and Mike cringed when he realised Spectre was mocking him for his insolent behaviour earlier.

“I can be good, I swear,” he muttered, but he couldn’t concentrate with the throbbing in his head and the way his vision was swimming.

“I know you can,” Spectre’s voice was solemn and mercifully quiet. “I reckon you need to sleep this off. I’m taking you to get it checked it out if it gets worse, though. Can you stand for me?”

Mike dragged the remnants of his bruised brain cells together and, lowering the ice pack from his head, he staggered to his feet, his hand on the wall to steady himself. Spectre reached for him but Mike twitched away before he could help himself. He shot a nervous glance at Spectre, but the man just retracted his hand, his forehead furrowed. He looked confused, a little disappointed, but not violent. He hadn’t gotten mad at Mike for his idiotic reflexes, and he wasn’t showing any sign of irritation so far.

“Sorry, sir,” Mike murmured.

Spectre just shrugged. “You don’t need to be scared of me, kid,” he said, his voice low and head turned away. He looked back at Mike. “Are you able to walk?”

Mike nodded, and then grimaced at the thunderous pain in his head. Spectre shot him a doubtful look.

“I’ll take the ice pack,” he said and Mike handed it over, watching as Spectre stepped away to put it on the counter. He looked back at Mike expectantly and Mike obediently trailed after him as Spectre led the way, walking gingerly because his vision was disconcertingly, and worryingly, fuzzy and he was struggling to keep his balance.

“Sir,” he murmured, reaching out to touch the wall, his head dropping down as he fought back nausea.

“Mike?” Spectre said.

“Sorry,” Mike ground out. “Feel sick.”

“Oh,” Spectre said. Mike’s mind tried to worry about Spectre getting irritated with him, or dumping him at a hospital, but the throbbing pain was making it hard to think of anything. “I’m going to help, try not to flinch, ‘kay?” Spectre said and Mike murmured an acknowledged, tensing involuntarily. Spectre put an arm around Mike’s back and Mike jerked before he forced himself still, trying to take deep breaths because his stomach was rolling and he really didn’t want to retch up gross stomach acid on the expensive flooring.

Spectre guided him forwards with a steady pressure on his back and Mike let himself be moved, his head down and his eyes half-shut. His weird eyesight was just making him feel sicker.

“Hurts,” he said softly without meaning to.

“I know,” Spectre said, his voice a low rumble by Mike’s ear. It wasn’t the suavely confident man he’d met, but someone softer and Mike leaned gingerly against him a little. “We’ll get you lying down and I’ll get some painkillers or something.”

Mike knew his agreement wasn’t necessary and because his head felt truly awful he didn’t respond.

He knew they’d walked into a room because the sound of their footsteps changed somehow and then Spectre was patiently manoeuvring him sideways. Mike’s eyes were still mostly closed. “Bed’s behind you, Mike, sit down,” he instructed and Mike obeyed, his legs folding as he sat. “O-kay,” Spectre said, “I expected you to check the bed was there first. Never mind. Good job. I’ll get those painkillers, stay there.”

If Mike had been feeling less shitty and much more reckless he might have said something snarky, but as it was he remained quiet and he heard Spectre’s footsteps move away. Another wave of nausea made him press a hand to his mouth and he tried to focus on not retching, but he ended up gagging, the involuntary movement making his head throb.

“Jesus,” Spectre muttered, making Mike startle. “You gonna be sick?” Mike made a small noise that was embarrassingly close to a whine and he wasn’t sure if he was agreeing or not. Something bumped his knee and he opened his eyes a fraction to see the blurry shape of a waste paper basket in hovering in front of him. He fumblingly took it, wedging it between his knees because his hands were shaking.

“Thanks, sir,” he mumbled.

“Sure,” Spectre said, sounding unnerved. “Take these tablets; they’ll help with the pain.”

Mike made himself lift his head and open his eyes, struggling to make his eyes focus enough to locate the hand Spectre was holding out and the two white tablets on his palm. Mike tried to take them but his co-ordination was off and he just ended up knocking his fingers into Spectre’s hand. He cringed and tried to force his stupid eyesight into cooperating.

“Sorry,” he said again, pretty sure that Spectre was getting annoyed by now.

Spectre crouched suddenly in front of him, a clear frown on his face, which was drifting in and out of focus.

“Mike, focus on my face a second,” he ordered. Mike tried, he really did, trying to blink away the fuzziness, but it wasn’t going and straining was making his head ache and his stomach roll. “Shit,” Spectre muttered as Mike dropped his head again, squeezing his eyes shut. “You didn’t tell me your eyesight was being weird,” he admonished and Mike curled a little into himself, wrapping his hands around his stomach. “No, no, I’m not angry,” Spectre said. “I just- you should have told me. I’m going to call someone, okay? A doctor. I’ll be right back, and- oh.” Spectre’s warm, larger hand took hold of Mike’s clammy one and Mike felt him press the pills into his palm. “Put them in your mouth,” Spectre said gently and Mike did as he was told. He really fucking hoped they _were_ painkillers. They wasn’t any reason they weren’t, but paranoia was hard to shake. He put the pills in his dry mouth anyway and then Spectre was taking his hand and wrapping his fingers around cool glass. “Here,” he said. Mike held the glass in two hands so he’d be less likely to spill it and swallowed enough to wash the pills down.

“Thanks, sir,” he said automatically. A warm hand ghosted over his shoulder before he heard Spectre moving away, leaving him alone. Mike exhaled heavily, curling his hands around the cold glass. God, what a mess of a day it had been, and it hadn’t even ended yet. He took another sip of water, but it made his stomach tighten and, carefully, he leant down to put the glass down. He hadn’t realised how off his balance was, however, because when he tried to bend down, he found himself overbalancing, tumbling forwards off the bed. He would have hit the floor face first if he hadn’t thrown his hands out to catch himself, ending up landing on his side with a hard thump that jarred his head and made him hiss through his teeth at the pain. The glass rolled away with a clatter, spilling water everywhere but not breaking, thank god.

His hope that Spectre hadn’t heard the bump was shattered when Spectre’s fuzzy form and heavy footsteps appeared at the door.

“Oh for god’s sake,” he muttered.

“Sorry, sorry,” Mike said.

Spectre came towards him and Mike tensed up, his head ducking down protectively, even as it sent shooting pain all through his head and down his spine.

“Remember me saying I’m not going to hurt you, kid?” Spectre said, before he was crouching down. “That still stands.”

“Didn’t mean to,” Mike said, because his thoughts seemed to be falling out of his mouth without his permission. Spectre put his hands under Mike’s arms, wrapping arms around Mike’s back like he was giving him a very odd hug. Mike just froze up, incapable of much else.

“Yeah, I know.” Spectre said, his voice close to Mike ear as he Spectre showed surprising, and worrying, strength as he grunted quietly and lifted Mike right up off his butt and set him down on the edge of the mattress. He stepped back and Mike breathed again. “Didn’t think you’d done it on purpose. You’re concussed and seriously traumatised, kid, hell.” He was a fuck-up, basically, was what Mike got from that.

“Pretty sure Trevor would take me back,” Mike mumbled, not sure whether his words were altogether understandable.

“Nice try,” Spectre chuckled as he crouched down to pick up the glass, setting it down on the bedside table. “But I’m not taking you back to that asshole.” Mike blinked at the words but he didn’t really have the energy or brain-power to try to sort out his thoughts on Spectre right now, and Spectre seemed to gather that Mike was at his limit. “Lie down, kid, or whatever’s comfortable. Just chill out for a bit. Shout if you want me.”

“Thanks,” Mike said again. Thanks for not getting pissed, for not shouting, for being really fucking tolerant for an owner.

Spectre didn’t respond, just left, pulling the door to behind him. Mike expelled a breath and carefully lifted his hand to the back of his head. Probing the already swollen lump sent a sickening jab of pain through his head sharp enough to make him whine quietly at the back of his throat. His finger came away sticky with half-congealed blood and he grimaced at it, before glancing at the pristine pillows of the bed. No way was he getting them stained with blood, even if his head hadn’t been throbbing too badly to lie down. So Mike stayed sat on the edge of the bed, waiting, though for what exactly he wasn’t sure, since he wasn’t sure if Spectre would just leave him alone until this went away. That would make most sense, Mike thought.

But Spectre came back inside a short time later and Mike lifted his head. He couldn’t stop himself blinking several times, but it did nothing to clear his fuzzy vision. Mike thought it might be a little better but it might have been wishful thinking. He had no doubt that Spectre wouldn’t keep him if Mike’s vision didn’t improve soon, though.

Spectre came forwards to stand about a meter away and Mike couldn’t read his face but he could see enough to tell that Spectre was on the phone.

“James, I’m with him now,” Spectre said and Mike tensed a little. “I’m putting you on speakerphone.” Spectre put the phone down on the bedside table and Mike waited, uncertain.

“Hi Mike,” a male voice said from the phone. “I’m James, a friend of Harvey’s.” Mike remembered that that was Spectre’s first name; Harvey. Mike felt like he should acknowledge the man somehow but he didn’t know what to say and James had carried on without waiting. “I’m going to ask you some questions and then I’m going to ask Harvey to check some things, is that alright?”

Mike swallowed and glanced at Harvey. Surely James should be asking Harvey for permission, not Mike, but when Harvey didn’t speak, he said, “Yes, sir.”

“Good,” James said. “Okay, Mike, can you tell me where you are?”

Mike blinked, looking to Harvey again, but the man just nodded. Mike couldn’t read his expression with his weird eyesight. “I’m in- um, Mr Spectre’s apartment, sat on the bed, sir,” he said. He should have called Harvey his owner, or, hell, his master, but his brain hadn’t been fast enough to process it.

“Okay, can you tell me what happened? What do you remember?”

Mike dropped his head, cringing a little. He’d been a goddamn idiot, that’s what. “I- fell into the wall, sir, and hit my head.”

James made a noise of acknowledgement. “And did you black out at any point?”

Mike thought for a second. “I don’t think so, sir. I’m pretty sure I didn’t.”

“Okay, that’s good,” James said. He had a nice voice, Mike thought tiredly. “Can you tell me where the pain is?”

“Back of my head, sir,” Mike said, lifting his hand a little but not touching it. “In the middle.”

“Harvey, can you check if he’s bleeding, if that’s alright with Mike.” Mike wasn’t sure why this guy kept asking.

“Yes, sir,” he said anyway, though it seemed redundant to him.

He tensed a little when Harvey’s blurry figure came closer but he turned his head so that Harvey could see.

“Yeah, it’s bled quite a lot. Got quite a lump,” Harvey said, his voice a little raised so the phone would catch it. He stepped back again, crossing his arms and Mike licked his dry lips.

“Right, well, head wounds tend to bleed a lot. If it keeps bleeding, though, that’s a problem. Do you feel dizzy, Mike?”

“Not too bad when I’m sat still, sir,” Mike said honestly.

“So you’re dizzy when you move?”

“He fell off the damn bed,” Harvey scoffed. “I’d say he was dizzy.”

“Shut up Harvey,” James said lightly. “Mike, can you tell me about your eyesight?”

Mike was silent for a second, but he figured lying was pointless. Mike couldn’t see well enough to pretend it was fine. “It’s all pretty blurry, sir,” he murmured.

“How blurry? Is your vision moving around or is it still?”

Mike glanced around the room. “It was moving earlier, sir,” he said. “But it’s still now.”

“Alright, good,” James said. It sounded like he was taking notes. “And have you been sick?”

“No, sir,” he said.

“You felt pretty sick, though, right?” Harvey interjected.

“Yes, sir,” Mike agreed.

“Harvey, has his behaviour changed much? Has he gotten more irritable, for example?”

Harvey was silent for a telling second. “I don’t know,” he said finally. “I only met him today, but I wouldn’t say so. He’s definitely nervy.” Mike exhaled. Yeah, he wasn’t anything like the confident associates Harvey had been meeting with. He still had no idea why Harvey had decided to bring him home, and was even now being so patient with him.

“Okay,” James said. “Harvey, I need you to check behind his ears for any bruising.” Harvey did so, his warm fingers only touching Mike very lightly and avoiding Mike’s head wound.

“Nope,” he said.

“Good. Is there any blood or fluid coming from his ears?”

“No.”

“Does he have bruising on his face,” James paused, “any new bruising? Around his eyes?”

“He wasn’t bruised before,” Harvey said, sounding disgruntled. “And no, he looks fine, except for he can’t focus on fucking anything.” Mike flinched. “Sorry, kid,” Harvey muttered, his voice lowering.

“Has he been slurring his words, or not understanding you?”

“No,” Harvey said.

“And he hasn’t had a seizure?”

“No.”

“Mike, you having trouble staying awake?” James asked. “Are you feeling sleepy?”

Mike went to shake his head but stopped himself with a hiss. “No, sir,” he said. It was true, he felt far too on edge to sleep and his head was throbbing, still.

“Harvey, you given him any medication?”

“Yeah, painkillers.”

“What kind?” James’ voice suddenly had an edge to it.

“Paracetamol,” Harvey said. “Why? Shouldn’t I have?”

“No, no,” James said, sounding relieved. “Paracetamol is okay, but no aspirin or ibuprofen, okay? They’ll make him bleed more.” Harvey made a noise of acknowledgement. “Look, Harvey, if he wasn’t an associate, I’d tell you to get his ass to a doctor asap. But everything sounds okay apart from the eyesight, which is worrying, I’m sorry to say. Look, it’s up to you, I’d advise getting a private scan and a doctor to look him over but it won’t be cheap.” James was silent for a second. “Depends how invested you are in him, Harvey,” he said lowly, which Mike probably wasn’t meant to hear. “If you don’t take him, I’m going to advise you watch him for at least a few hours and just hope his eyesight and balance get better, but it’s okay if he wants to sleep it off. I’m not qualified to help if it doesn’t go away, but I can recommend someone.”

“Alright,” Harvey said. Mike dropped his head a little, feeling sick. A private doctor – that meant killing him, right? Euthanasia or whatever? But he didn’t understand why they’d want to scan him.

“I’m taking you off speakerphone,” Harvey said, “give me the contact details.”

Harvey took the phone and left the room and Mike took several shaky breaths, fisting his hands on his thighs. He kept trying to make his vision focus but it was still drifting in and out. He thought about trying to pretend his eyesight was getting better, but he really didn’t think he’d be able to keep Harvey from noticing that it wasn’t. He thought about trying to make a run for it, either now or when Harvey tried to take him to the private doctor, but the pain in his head was bad enough that just the thought of trying to run made him feel ill. And what would he do? Trevor wouldn’t have him. No, Mike would just have to hope to god that things improved, and, if they didn’t, he’d just have to obey Harvey. He didn’t see that he had any other choice.

“Hey, Mike?” Harvey came back inside and Mike sniffed. “Shit,” he muttered and Mike dragged his hand over his face because he was crying. “I’ll get the ice pack,” Harvey said, clearly thinking that Mike’s crying was from the pain, but it did give him a minute to collect himself before Harvey came back.

The ice pack was cold enough that Harvey must have put it back in the freezer and Mike gratefully put it to his head, relaxing a little as the pain was numbed.

“How’re you feeling about going to see a doctor, Mike, because the eyesight is worrying me. James says it’s a bad sign and he knows what he’s talking about. Money- isn’t a problem for me so it’s no skin off my nose to take you.”

Mike was silent, staring at the floor. What did Harvey want him to say? That he was happy for Harvey to have him put down? Surely even the really good associates, the very best ones, would protest against fucking _dying_ , right?

“I don’t want to go,” Mike said dully, when it was clear Harvey was waiting for him to speak. He expected Harvey to shrug and say he didn’t really care what Mike thought; he was taking Mike there anyway. But Harvey just sighed. Mike’s head hurt like hell and he just didn’t get it.

“Why not, kid? They’re not going to hurt you.”

Mike didn’t care if it didn’t hurt. “I don’t want to go,” he repeated, knowing that he wasn’t supposed to say stuff like that. But what did Harvey fucking expect?

“Mike-” Harvey started, sounded exasperated.

“ _No_ ,” Mike snapped, curling his arms around his stomach as he hunched over. “I won’t go along like a goddamn _pet_. You’ll have to fucking drag me.” He was trembling and he didn’t dare look at Harvey.

“Alright,” Harvey said quietly, making Mike still in surprise. “I won’t force you right now kid. But we’re going to talk about this because I want that head checked out.” Harvey paused briefly and Mike wondered suddenly if he’d gotten it all wrong. Have his head ‘checked out’? That sounded like a- like a _proper_ doctor for free people, not a back-street butcher that put associates down. Harvey carried on like Mike hadn’t been struck dumb. “James said to keep an eye on you for a few hours,” Harvey said, keeping his voice quiet, for which Mike was grateful. “So do you want to have a movie on or something?”

“Whatever you want, sir,” he said quietly. He’d think more about what Harvey had said later, when his head didn’t feel like it was full of gravel. He wanted to show he _could_ be good, and he swore to himself that if he got through this, he was going to try so much harder to please Harvey. Just the possibility that the man might be okay after all made tentative hope bubble up.

Harvey just sighed at Mike’s generic acquiescence. “Alright, I’ll put one on. Shuffle back on the bed and sit by the head board, ‘kay? If you feel like nodding off that’s fine. I’ll get a towel for the pillows.”

“Thank you, sir,” Mike said and meant it, doing as he was told, even as he winced at the pain in his head.

Harvey moved across the room to fetch something and Mike blinked in surprise when a T.V. rose out of the end of the bed.

“Pretty cool, huh?” Harvey said.

“Yes, sir,” Mike agreed.

Harvey fetched the towel and another glass of water, and then set up a film while Mike sat silently. Mike couldn’t really see much of the movie, but he recognised it and it was kind of comforting to listen to and watch the blurred figures move about.

Mike started to feel drowsy after an hour or so, but he was pretty sure it was from the stress of the day rather than the head wound. But he didn’t really want to sleep yet, even though James had said it was fine.

“How’s the vision, Mike?” Harvey said as the film was ending, startling Mike a little.

Mike blinked a few times, squinting at the T.V. and then at the other side of the room. He wasn’t sure, but things did look a little less blurry, he thought.

“I’m not sure,” he said. “I think it might be a bit clearer.”

“Yeah?” Harvey said, sounding pleased. “Is that the truth? Because you don’t need to lie.”

Mike quickly shook his head and then winced, regretting it. “It’s the truth, sir,” he said.

Harvey grunted. “We’ll watch another movie. See how it is after that. Unless you want to nap?”

They watched another movie and where before Mike hadn’t been certain, he was sure now that it was improving.

“Sir?” he said cautiously, feeling hope swell, even as he tried to repress it.

“Yeah?” Harvey said. Mike thought he might have been falling asleep.

“It is getting better.”

“Oh,” Harvey said, and then smiled. “That’s really good, Mike.” He sounded genuinely pleased and Mike smiled shyly back. Harvey squeezed his shoulder and Mike didn’t tense this time.

They watched the rest of the movie in silence and while Mike’s eyesight was still crappier than it had been, it was much better and he felt less sick. It was getting dark outside by the time the credits rolled and Harvey yawned and stretched.

“You hungry?” he asked.

“Yes, sir,” Mike said, although he wasn’t sure whether he was or not. He still felt kind of sick, especially because he still wasn’t entirely sure about what Harvey had said about the doctor. What if ‘checked out’ just meant, checking to see whether Mike was likely to get better or not. And if he wouldn’t, then he might still end up with a needle in his arm. He swallowed

“The eyesight?” Harvey prompted.

“Much better, sir,” he said.

“You mean that?” Harvey said and he turned to look at Mike, studying him for a second. Mike was able to properly focus on his face now and it was only a little fuzzy round the edges. He saw Harvey smile. “Yeah, you’re better. Tell me if it doesn’t go back to normal entirely though, understand?” Mike agreed obligingly, though he thought he might be lying.

On Harvey’s directions Mike got gingerly up from the bed, but whilst his stomach protested a little, his balance seemed improved and he was able to follow Harvey to the kitchen without stumbling, or leaning on the wall.

Harvey cooked while Mike sat at the table, with Harvey talking about his job as a lawyer, asking Mike innocuous questions every now and then and keeping away from anything heavy. Mike relaxed into it, appreciating that Harvey seemed to be trying to put his at ease. Trevor had never done that. Even when Mike had been free, Trevor had always been mostly focused on his own emotions and not cared too much for anyone else’s discomfort, except maybe Jenny’s. Mike should have seen what kind of a man his friend was but by the time he realised, Trevor already owned him.

“Here we are,” Harvey said, plating up something that smelled surprisingly good and Mike’s stomach groaned. Harvey laughed quietly.

Harvey dug in and, though Mike waited a second, wondering if he was supposed to wait for Harvey’s permission, he hesitantly followed suit and Harvey just smiled at him. Mike relaxed a little, chewing the food slowly, since the movement hurt his head a little.

“It’s very nice, sir, thank you,” Mike said, which was the truth, although he’d have said it if he’d hated it.

“Good,” Harvey said. “I’ll check with James, but we can probably wash your hair after and then to bed. I don’t know about you but I’m knackered.”

Mike chewed and swallowed his food, cautiously hopeful. “So,” he said quietly and then paused. “I don’t need to go to the doctor, sir?” It was risky to ask, but he had to know.

Harvey paused for a moment. “I want you to go, kid. Tomorrow.” He put his fork down, looking serious. “Is this like you didn’t want to go to the hospital either? Are you afraid of needles or something?”

Mike tensed, fiddling with his fork. “Sort of, sir,” he murmured. He startled violently when Harvey put a hand over his and he dropped his fork onto the plate with a clatter. Harvey quickly removed his hand.

“Sorry,” he said. “I keep making you jump, don’t I?” He sighed. “Look, Mike, I don’t know what you’ve got against doctors, but you don’t need to be scared, okay?”

For a second, Mike wanted to snap that he thought it was perfectly fucking normal to be scared of dying, before he bit his tongue. “Okay, sir,” he said instead.

“Mike, come on,” Harvey said, sounding frustrated. “Clearly you have something to say, so spit it out. I like that you have a personality, you don’t need to act like this when we’re at home.”

Mike glanced up at Harvey in confusion, only to find an oddly earnest expression on the man’s face, his eyebrows slightly crumpled like he was confused or disapproving. Mike really had no idea what to make of him.

Harvey seemed to be waiting for an answer. “I just…” Mike started softly, looking down at the table as he ran his thumb absently over the expensive wood. “I just thought that you won’t want me if my eyesight was bad, sir.”

Harvey was silent and Mike risked a glance up, only to find Harvey frowning at him. Mike tensed warily and looked down again, wishing he hadn’t said anything.

“Mike, look,” Harvey said. “I’m not taking you back to that ass, Trevor, and I’m not going to dump you anywhere else, either. What’s this got to do with the hospital?”

Mike wasn’t sure he believed Harvey but it was nice to hear him say it anyway. “Just, because, you know. Sir,” Mike mumbled.

“Oh fuck,” Harvey muttered and Mike looked up sharply, grimacing at the throbbing in his head. “You thought I might abandon you at the hospital, is that it? Like some dumbass people do?” Mike just nodded silently, because that was close enough. “I won’t. I won’t, okay? Even if your eyesight stays bad, you can stay here, understand?”

“Thank you, sir,” Mike said.

Harvey got up to clear the plates, which was definitely Mike’s job, but Mike figured that he was getting a grace period because of his head. Even though the wound had been his fault.

“I’m sorry,” Mike said, while looking at the table.

“What for? You can’t help it.”

“For hitting my head, sir,” Mike said.

Harvey was quiet only for a beat. “Yeah. As I said; you can’t help it.”

Mike smiled gratefully, cautiously meeting Harvey’s gaze and Harvey smiled back at him. Mike wondered whether he’d completely misjudged him, considering how Harvey seemed to genuinely care in a way that set Mike off-balance, looking for a catch whilst desperately wishing that _just this once_ things would go his way.

“I’m really grateful, sir,” he said softly.

“Sure, kid, don’t worry about it. And drop the ‘sir’, okay?”

“Okay,” Mike said quietly. Maybe Harvey would be different. Maybe things would be okay after all.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> What did you think?? has anyone had a real concussion and was it anything like this? (I hope not for your sake!!) How did you find the characterisation of the boys, did I get it okay? Did you like the ending? Was Harvey an asshole or did you think he did okay?
> 
> All thoughts welcome!!!
> 
> Come find me on Tumblr at maqcyloup, or on dreamwidth as maqcyloup! I'm happy to chat :))))


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